


Like Sweet Bells (Jangled, Out of Tune, and Harsh)

by crazyinjune



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, please do excuse the gratuitous Hamlet references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:43:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/pseuds/crazyinjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre takes to spending his sleepless nights on the roof. This time, three people keep him company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Sweet Bells (Jangled, Out of Tune, and Harsh)

“You’re reading  _Hamlet_ again.”

 

It’s not a question. Prouvaire rarely asks questions of other people, just states things in his quiet way because he has already figured out the answer.

 

Combeferre turns his head a fraction of an inch  to catch Prouvaire’s eyes staring at him. “And how do you know?”

 

Prouvaire slips beside him, dangling his legs off the roof and swinging them back and forth. Combeferre draws his own legs back up, folding them into his chest and wrapping his arms around his knees. “I was looking for you in your room last week,” Prouvaire says. “I found  _Hamlet_ on the desk instead.”

 

“It’s always on the desk.”

 

“Not laid open, it isn’t.” Prouvaire pauses, trains his eyes on Combeferre again. Combeferre has yet to meet them. “He left, you know. Hamlet. When things became too much.”

 

Combeferre scoffs, trying to hide the hitch in his breath. "He was banished. Driven out."

 

“Oh, I think he could have stayed if he wanted,” says Prouvaire lightly.

 

Combeferre draws in a hiss. “Don’t  _lecture_  me, Jehan.”

 

“I’m not.” He swings his legs back over the edge of the roof and stands up in one fluid motion. “Just pointing out an observation.” And he’s gone, leaving Combeferre to nurse the pounding in his head alone.

 

***

 

“So where’s the fearless leader?” Grantaire sways precariously towards the edge of the roof, his eyes watery and rimmed red. The flask he slips into his back pocket does not escape Combeferre’s notice.

 

“Having fearful nightmares,” Combeferre says shortly.

 

 Grantaire stops cold and sinks to the ground, running his hands through wild hair.  He fumbles around in his pockets with until he’s brought out a pack of cigarettes, flicks one to Combeferre and keeps one himself. Combeferre allows Grantaire to light the one he’s placed between his teeth and then inhales longer than he should.

 

“I’m a med student,” he tells the stars, flipping the cigarette through his fingers. 

 

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “So?”

 

Combeferre sighs. “Nothing. Just pointing out an observation.”

 

They sit in silence, watching the smoke dissipate into the air.

 

“You’re not with him?” Grantaire is staring at his  hands. “You know. The nightmares.”

 

“Courfeyrac is.” Combeferre lets out a bitter laugh. “I’m no good for them, they’re my fault in the first place.”

 

“They’re not—” Grantaire stops himself and scowls. “Fuck it, you wouldn’t believe me anyways.”

 

“I wouldn’t.” Combeferre agrees. “Thank you for not trying.” Grantaire gives a mocking bow, his face twisting, and Combeferre softens. “Go get some rest,” he says quietly. “I’m sure Enjolras will want to see you in the morning.”

 

“Why, to make his morning shittier than his night?”

 

“You make great pancakes.” Combeferre levels his eyes with Grantaire’s.

 

Grantaire opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, lips thin. “Get some sleep too. Take your own advice.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t.

 

***

 

“You haven’t slept at all.”

 

Combeferre jumps at the sound and Enjolras stands there, rumpled and exhausted. Combeferre pretends that the shadows from the trees that dance around Enjolras’s face are hiding the dark purple circles under his eyes and the thin, angry scar across his cheek.

 

“You haven’t either.” Combeferre lets out a shaky breath when Enjolras steps forward and the light hits his gaunt face.

 

“I tried,” Enjolras admits. He settles himself  next to Combeferre with caution, with none of Prouvaire’s ease or Grantaire’s recklessness. “You saw how that turned out, didn’t you? That’s why you’re up here.” He gives Combeferre a piercing sideways look and Combeferre’s heart drops somewhere into his stomach.

 

“What have you done with Courfeyrac?” He tries for a weak smile, but it comes out like a grimace.

 

“He’s making tea.” A strand of hair falls into Enjolras’s face and he tucks it back into the tie that keeps the rest of his hair back. Combeferre had fumbled around on the nightstand in the dark and pressed the tie into Courfeyrac’s hand before making his way to the roof, trying to get the ringing of Enjolras’s scream out of his head.

 

“You don’t like tea.”

 

“Joly insists. Good for panics, he said.”

 

It takes Combeferre a very long time to open his mouth. “Grantaire’s going to make you pancakes in the morning,” he offers.

 

Enjolras furrows his brows. “Did he—did he see?”

 

Combeferre shook his head. “No. No, he didn’t come home until  maybe an hour ago. But he knows.”

 

The tension doesn’t leave Enjolras’s face so Combeferre automatically reaches for him to smooth out the lines with his fingers. He brushes over the scar and they both flinch.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Enjolras says quietly. “I didn’t listen to you.”

 

Combeferre squeezes his eyes shut and his voice breaks. “I didn’t  _protect_  you.”

 

Enjolras goes rigid. “Protecting me is not your job, Combeferre.”

 

Combeferre doesn’t remember standing, but now he’s pacing. “If Feuilly hadn’t come in and saved us—” Enjolras raises a hand and Combeferre falls silent. Inclining his head, Enjolras turns towards the sky.

 

“Dawn,” he says in that quiet, strong voice.

 

The first rays of sunlight stretch into vision and Combeferre is back at Enjolras’s side. Enjolras gives his hand a squeeze and they watch the sun climb over the horizon and the glow seems to soften all the harshness of Enjolras’s face as he tips his head to the sunrise.

 

***

 

Downstairs, Courfeyrac waits with a cup of tea in one hand, a travel mug of coffee in the other.

 

“Your train leaves in an hour,” he says, pressing the coffee into Combeferre’s hand. Combeferre will always be amazed at Courfeyrac’s ability to give a genuine, brilliant smile even when he hasn’t slept in two days.

He curls his fingers around the mug in confusion. “I’m not...I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“It was Prouvaire’s idea,” Courfeyrac says, pressing his hand to Combeferre’s shoulder before slipping up the stairs.

 

“Bahorel’s parents keep a little cottage on the coast,” Enjolras explains before Combeferre can interrupt him. “It’s small, and he did mention engaging in fierce battle with some unknown six legged specimen last time he was there, but….” He rolls one of his shoulders back in  a half shrug, watching Combeferre for signs of discontentment. “You actually like six legged specimens.”

 

“You want me to leave.” Combeferre’s mouth is dry and he has to force the words out. His heart twists, flooded with a dizzying mixture of anger and relief.

 

“ _You_  want to leave.” Courfeyrac is back, leaning against the staircase holding a weathered duffle bag Combeferre knows to be Bossuet’s. “I see it, Combeferre.” His voice softens. “I see it, Jehan sees it, we all see it. Ever since the fuck up in the warehouse, you spend more time on the roof than under it. I haven’t seen you in the house for more than three hours at a time in the past week. Admit it, just  _admit_  it! You don’t want to be here.”

 

Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales slowly, sinking into a chair at the rickety kitchen table. “I don’t want to be here,” he says, fingers still pinched at his forehead. He turns to Enjolras, who looks back at him with an intensity both gentle and ferocious. “But you need me here, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t break his gaze. “I need you  _whole._ ”

 

“We didn’t book you a return ticket.” Courfeyrac puts the bag down and kneels next to the chair, running his hands up and down the sides of Combeferre’s arms and resting one reassuringly at the back of his neck. “You don’t need to be our martyr right now.”

 

Enjolras raises two fingers. “That’s my job.”

 

“You haven’t quite got the face for it, dear.” Courfeyrac consoles Combeferre with a flashing grin. And they are laughing, all three of them with a broken sort of laugh that breaks the haze of tension that surrounds them.

 

“And now?” Enjolras is flushed from laughing, but his face settles back into graveness.

 

Combeferre looks at them both and, ever so slowly, reaches down for the duffle bag.

 

“Thank you,” he says as he stands in the doorway. He can’t ever thank them enough for the escape route. He had been pretending for far too long that he didn’t need it.

 

He’s sitting by the window on the train when he finally reaches into the duffle bag and finds that someone had packed his battered copy of  _Hamlet._  There was a note scrawled on the cover, a sentence  in Prouvaire’s looping handwriting.

 

_He also came back._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at crazyinjune.tumblr.com xoxo


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